


He Said, He Said (Once More With Affection)

by ElloPoppet



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Affectionate Insults, Avengers Tower, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Clint Barton, Insults, Light Angst, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 21:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18837343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Five times Clint insulted Bucky, and one time Bucky returned the sentiment.





	He Said, He Said (Once More With Affection)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawkguyandthewinterdude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkguyandthewinterdude/gifts).



> A short one-shot based off of the fact that hawkguyandthewinterdude and I use horrific insults as thinly veiled terms of endearment and she suggested a WinterHawk fic based off of this premise ages ago, and also because she has exams today and I do my best to be a good bro, so this is a wee baby gift. 
> 
> Enjoy!

I.

The first time that Clint called Bucky an asshole, it was on accident. Or by instinct. Something like that. 

Everyone was gathered around the table, picking and choosing from open and overflowing Chinese takeout containers. Clint was late, but it wasn’t his fault; his aids had slipped out of his ears during his nap and he hadn’t heard Friday’s attempts to rouse him. And he had been tired, so tired from the night before. Mario Kart wasn’t going to kick Sam’s ass on its own, someone had to do it, and so what if it had taken until four in the morning?

Clint stumbled into the room and someone put a plate in his hands, and once he was fully conscious enough to realize what was happening he zeroed in on the one thing he was always after; those damn pork egg rolls that Tony knew he lived for. They were at the other end of the table and Clint dodged Thor and his frankly impressive-bordering-on-horrific mound of plated food to reach for the last one. 

A shiny vibranium hand got there first, piercing the eggroll with a fork and transferring said deep-fried piece of deliciousness directly into Bucky’s mouth. Clint watched in agony as the eggroll disappeared completely in two bites. 

Aw, favorite thing on the table, _no_.

“Barnes, you asshole,” Clint said. It wasn’t even a satisfying insult, or an antagonizing one. Clint sounded sad and pathetic even to his own ears. 

Everyone around the table froze. Bruce’s jaw clamped shut while Tony’s fell open, a few pieces of fried rice tumbling onto his shirt. The room went deadly quiet, and Clint made eyes at everyone, perplexed. Lastly, he came to Bucky, who was also looking around at the rest of the team, eyes darting around at everyone who was staring at him, waiting for him to…? Clint wasn’t sure. 

“What in the shit, guys. It’s not like he’s gonna kill me for calling him an asshole.” Clint said firmly, keeping eyes on Barnes, hoping that the _right?_ that he mentally tacked onto the end of the statement in his mind wasn’t being broadcast via facial expression. 

Barnes softened a bit, the corners of his lips quirking up. As fast as Clint had ever seen anyone move, Bucky used the offending fork to stab an eggroll off of Steve’s plate. He stepped forward and raised his eyebrows at Clint, who extended his plate. Eggroll securely on Clint’s plate, Clint grinned up at Barnes, everyone around the table breathed a sigh of relief, Steve gazed forlornly at his plate, and dinner resumed. 

 

II.

“I swear to God on my Ma’s grave Barton, if you so much as think about-”

“I’d like to buy a hotel, please and thank you, good sir,” Clint said, holding out both hands, one containing a fistful of Monopoly money, the other making a grabby motion toward Sam, who shook his head as he made the exchange and dropped a small plastic hotel in Clint’s outstretched hand. Clint slammed the hotel down on the Boardwalk square, and Bucky covered his face with his hands. 

“Wilson. Wilson. How. How does he manage that every damn TIME?! Sam, he’s gotta be cheatin’.” Bucky was dangerously close to whining and Clint lapped it up as he always did when the former Winter Soldier put his actual youthful age on full display. 

“Calm down, sweetheart, and stop accusing Sam of being a bad banker. It’s not very nice,” Clint said, happily collecting rent from Sam for another space. 

“Don’t you sweetheart me, _doll,_ ” Bucky glowered, and if _that_ wasn’t the cutest fucking thing. 

“Children!” Sam exclaimed, effectively shutting both of them up. “Can we please just finish this nonsense game like the adults that we are before I start going gray? Buck, Clint’s not cheating, this just happens to be the one thing he’s really spectacular at. I don’t care, Clint, you can waggle that middle finger in my face all day long, and also, don’t antagonize the greaseball. Hasn’t he been through enough?” Sam’s eyes sparkled, and Clint laughed when Bucky kicked Sam under the table, grumbling. 

Two hours later, the tables were severely turned, and Bucky stood from the table, holding his hand out toward Clint expectantly. Clint hesitated to hand over the rest of his money, his empire toppled, his Monopoly winning streak effectively obliterated. Bucky grinned down at him mercilessly.

“Yeah, yeah, you cheeky bastard, gloat on,” Clint said, trying but failing to be pissy about it, because Bucky _winked_ at him and how could he be mad at that?

 

III.

Sparring with Steve was easier than sparring with Bucky, because no matter how much he insisted that he didn’t, the Star Spangled Man with a Plan and a Heart of Gold most definitely pulled his punches. 

Bucky? Nuh uh. 

To be fair, Bucky always removed his prosthetic before sparring with anyone other than Steve, Thor and Hulk, the one time that he, Bruce and Tony had decided to see what would happen if someone engaged Hulk in sparring “for science” (though Clint suspected in reality that it was “for shits and giggles”). Even one-armed, Bucky was solid, sturdy, calculating, and wholly unforgiving. 

To give himself credit, Clint was _fast_ , and he was flexible in a way that only Natasha could come close to. Where Bucky hit hard, Clint deflected quickly and fluidly, using his agility to swipe quick hits and jabs, using his legs to sweep Bucky off balance or nip up from his back. Clint knew that they weren’t evenly matched, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t evenly challenged when sparring against one another. 

“C’mon, Sergeant, that all you got for me?” Clint gritted out, the gym dark around them save the light shining from above the sparring mat. It was late (early?), neither of them could sleep, and it seemed to be that time of the year when everyone in the Tower started to get antsy for one reason or another. Anniversaries of battles, or deaths, or losses of control. All three for Clint and Bucky, who magnetized together as everyone else polarized apart to deal with their shit on their own. 

It was quiet save for their breathing and the sound of their bodies striking one another, their bare feet on the mat. Bucky was more aggressive than usual, yet somehow less powerful, his hits having less impact. Clint didn’t know if he was challenging Bucky, pushing him further out of his own desperation to hurt or his own desperation to not be treated with kid gloves. 

Either way, Clint figured as Bucky grasped him in a chokehold, it was probably something that he should be figuring out in therapy, but. Que sera sera and all that. 

“I don’t hear you bein’ cocky now,” Bucky gasped out, his muscled forearm pressing against Clint’s throat, enough to hold him but not enough to cut off blood supply. Clint scrambled in his mind, stayed cool in his body, and fell limp, dead weight, slipping from Bucky’s hold. Clint spun and sprang up, knee rising on instinct, a move that Bucky would no doubt block-

-except Bucky didn’t, and Clint’s knee drove directly into his abdomen. Bucky wheezed for breath, falling onto his ass on the mat, and Clint stared down at him for a moment, shocked, before getting with the program. 

“What the fuck, you goddamn idiot?! Why didn’t you block?” Clint asked, kneeling over Bucky on the mat, placing his hand wide on Bucky’s back between his shoulder blades. “Christ, sit up straight, Buck, and breathe in deep.”

Bucky listened, catching his breath and recovering quickly after the first loud, gasping inhale. Clint sighed in relief and sat down beside Bucky on the mat. 

“I thought,” Bucky said through gulps of air, “I thought you passed out. I didn’t mean to apply a lot of pressure, but I thought I fucked up and I thought you-”

“Ah, no, Buck. I’m fine. Just a tactic, that’s all,” Clint stared at Bucky, who stared back at him, wide-eyed and relieved. Clint felt strange, and he didn’t quite know where to go from there.

“‘M sorry, man. I’ll keep that in mind for the future, yeah? No deadweighting on Barnes. 10-4.”

Bucky nodded, a small little thing, and took Clint’s hand, allowing himself to be hoisted back up to standing. 

“I should probably say sorry for calling you an idiot, too,” Clint said, a bit sheepishly. Bucky shook his head at that, and he side-eyed Clint with a shit-eating smirk. 

“Nah. I was an idiot. Don’t know why I panicked at the thought of you passin’ out. Shoulda just enjoyed the peace and quiet instead.”

Clint scoffed and elbowed Bucky in the ribs, and didn’t feel bad about it. 

 

IV.

“How did I know you’d be up here?”

Bucky’s voice echoed through the vents, confirming all of Clint’s suspicions that it was the super-soldier who had been crawling through the wide ventilation system. The tell was the arm, clanging against the metal every other second amidst the typical sounds of shuffling and clothes ruffling that typically signified that Nat was creeping up on him to pull him away to somewhere that he probably didn’t want to be, to do something that he probably didn’t want to do. 

“Gee, I dunno,” Clint said sarcastically, not moving to look at where Bucky was slowly but surely just about to reach him where he was laying on his back, a blanket draped across his body, a small pillow under his head. “I suspect a little spider might have tipped you off.” 

“Scoot,” Bucky demanded and Clint sighed, rolling onto his side and scooching over until his back was against the wall of the vent, his shoulders now touching both the top and the bottom. Bucky slid into the space beside him, shoulders even more bunched, his vibranium shoulder threatening to scrape the vent. They were chest to chest and knee to knee; there was no way for them to not be. The vents were wide, Tony’s design Clint suspected, but they weren’t two-full-grown-men wide. 

“Why’d you disappear up here?” Bucky asked, and his voice was softer, more gentle. “I was lookin’ for you after, when we got back. Thought we mighta left you behind for a minute, there.” 

Clint snorted. “Maybe you guys shoulda.”

Bucky growled low in his throat. “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” Clint spat, anger creeping into his voice. “Tell me what good I did up there, aside from needing Tony to come catch my ass when I fell off the fucking roof? Jesus, Barnes, you’re smarter than this. You gotta figure how sick I get of feeling so fucking useless most of the time.”

“Useless?” Bucky said, sounding truly astounded. “Clint, and yeah, I’m not gonna bring myself down to your level and call you Barton because we’re beyond that bullshit, don’t even try me. Clint, if you weren’t there who the hell woulda had my back for the two goddamn hours I spent tryin’ to snipe and shield? You think I woulda been able to focus enough to have my aim and use my arm to block that kid and her Ma? Hell no. And in case you forgot, you fell off the roof because you were takin’ down one of those flyin’ assholes with you before they could shoot up the building. Christ, call me an idiot one more time and I’ll bring up this conversation for the rest of eternity.”

“Anyone could have your six, Buck-”

“Bullshit. Or not bullshit, I s’pose, because you’re right. They could perch anyone up there to have my back, but it wouldn’t work. They could have Steve up there with me and I wouldn’t feel as safe as I do with you up there with me, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” There was a hint of challenge in Bucky’s voice that helped Clint decide that he was being truthful, and a warmth spread from beneath Clint’s ribs into his cramped and folded limbs. 

“Maybe Nat should send you up here every time I need a pep talk, you fucking ridiculous punk,” Clint shot back, defeated in a way that felt good and not at all how Clint was used to feeling defeated. 

Bucky barked out a laugh, and it was loud and melodic in the vents. Clint liked it an awful lot, and thought about asking’ Tony to add a few more inches of space up there if he could. 

 

V. 

“You,” Clint croaked, peeling his purple and swollen eyes open slowly, “are such a stupid sonofabitch, Bucky.” 

“Gee, sweetheart, you sure know how to show gratitude. I put your aids in for you, by the way. You’re welcome for that, too.” Bucky’s voice was dry and cracked, and when the room came into focus Bucky’s face came into focus with it, cut up and bruised, bottom lip cracked and smeared with drying blood. Clint closed his eyes against the sight and it _hurt_ , both the action of moving the muscles in his face and seeing Bucky injured. Clint wondered how long he had been out for, wondered what Bucky had looked like hours ago after shielding Clint from the explosion at Fisk’s warehouse before the serum started doing it’s accelerated healing mojo. 

He must have looked horrible. He must have been so fucked up, and Clint sat up quickly, reaching out for something that he didn’t even know was there, but Bucky was there with the emesis basin immediately. Bucky rubbed Clint’s back, flesh hand applying pressure up and down Clint’s spine as he dry heaved into the basin, stomach acid burning his throat. Everything hurt except for Bucky’s hand and the skin beneath it. Clint was pretty sure that hurt, too, but in a way that he was willing to tolerate. 

“It’s alright, doll,” Bucky whispered, over and over as Clint’s body kept trying to reject non-existent stomach contents, “it’s alright.”

“Why’d you do it?” Clint whispered as soon as the heaving ceased, still spitting into the basin, eyes still closed. “Nobody asked you to get hurt for me, you dick. I certainly fucking didn’t.”

Bucky didn’t answer but he did sigh deeply, resigned. 

“Yeah, Clint. I got hurt. Busted up. Shrapnel lodged here and there, bruises, cuts, a few broken ribs. But in case you forgot, you’re the one in the hospital bed and I’m the one walking around because I’m fine. I’ll be perfect in a few hours, few days at the most.”

Clint snorted and fuck, that hurt. “Glad to see your ego returning, Buck,” he joked, knowing it would fall flat. 

“What woulda happened to you if I hadn’t had your cover, Clint?” Bucky asked, and he didn’t continue, simply let the question hang between the two of them. Clint opened one eye and looked at Bucky looking intently back at him, eyes shining. 

Aw, fuck.

“Yeah, sugar. You’d be down at the morgue right about now, and what would I do then, huh?” Bucky asked, and Clint reached forward and grasped Bucky’s hand, coming across the prosthetic first, gripping the strong metal tightly, tight enough to feel his joints popping. Bucky’s flesh hand covered Clint’s and the pressure was calming, grounding. 

“You’d probably get more sleep. More peace and quiet without me following you around like a puppy,” Clint said, and Bucky chuckled. 

“There’s more important things than sleep, Clint.”

Clint smiled at that, and Bucky didn’t release his hand, holding on tightly. 

“Yeah, but how am I supposed to repay you, huh? Life debts are pretty big debts, Buck.”

Bucky hummed in agreement and the room was quiet for a few minutes. Clint started to drift into a light slumber, barely having the energy to chuckle when Bucky finally did respond. 

“You could be a bit nicer to me, ya know.”

 

+1

A few months passed. Everyone healed. Life at the Tower continued as usual. 

Until 1:30 in the morning on a Thursday.

“Hmm?” Clint half groaned, half asked as he blinked awake, the overhead lights flashing brightly to catch his attention. He debated for a moment whether or not he should tell Friday to dismiss whoever was at his door so that he could go back to sleep, but chose instead to reach over and put in his aids instead. 

“What’s up, Fri?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. The lights stopped flashing. 

“Sergeant Barnes is at the door, Agent Barton. He is requesting entry.”

Clint felt more awake in an instant. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, toeing on his slippers, double checking that he was wearing pants before shuffling out of his room and to his door. Bucky was waiting on the other side, as promised, though when Clint opened the door Bucky was inside the apartment in a heartbeat, startling Clint a bit. 

“What’s up, Buck? You alright?” Clint asked, concerned, shutting the door gently and walking up to where Bucky was standing a few strides away. He flicked on the lights in the living room, taking in the sight of Bucky barefoot, in sweats and a t-shirt, hair looking sleep-mussed. 

Bucky didn’t answer, but he did nod, and Clint’s worry notched down a few levels. Clint didn’t say anything, just waited for Bucky to let him know what was up, but Bucky didn’t say anything either, not for a long while. 

Bucky stepped up closer, edging into Clint’s space, and Clint held his ground. Slowly, Bucky raised his right hand up to Clint’s face, his palm warm against Clint’s cheek, and Clint pressed a light kiss into his palm as naturally as he would do anything else, because the insults and the ‘sweethearts’, the ‘dolls’ and the ‘sugars’ hadn’t been nothing, after all. 

“You in this with me?” Bucky asked in a whisper, and Clint nodded into Bucky’s palm, his scruff pleasantly scraping Bucky’s skin.

“Sure am, babe,” Clint said, relief and joy, eagerness and anticipation thrumming in his veins. 

“Good,” Bucky whispered, leaning forward to pepper Clint’s jaw with feather-light presses of his lips. “Then kiss me, you beautiful motherfucker.”

And Clint did just that, the sucker for endearments that he was.


End file.
